by Ulff Lehmann
Of course, they had lookouts, Drangar thought. If they had operated in a larger group from a fixed base, they would have been stupid not to have any.
His attention now attuned, it didn’t take him long to discover several other sentries dispersed about the street at strategically important places.
Well-guarded, indeed. How had they managed to gain a foothold here? His answer came in the form of a pair of toughs who began to kick the beggar-outlook. Before they could assault the man in earnest, the vagabond lashed out with his walking stick. Even to Drangar’s still somewhat experienced eye the man was fast: one quick jab and one man covered his left eye with blood spurting out from under his hands. The other ruffian didn’t wait for a second strike which would most certainly have been aimed at him; he dragged his whimpering companion away, and both hurried off.
“What is the point of all of this?” he asked his guide. “Why do you show me all this? I know there have been various attempts on my life, the last in the Shadow Peaks.”
“You need to learn the truth.” Again, the ghostly figure replied with a simple sentence.
He knew the truth. He had butchered Hesmera with his sword. Why revisit the past? Why did she remind him of his deed?
“You will learn soon enough,” she said.
To them the roof was like air, and they glided into the building and settled in what once could have been the hovel’s rafters, above a group gathered in a dug-out space between the ramshackle walls. The two newcomers bowed to a black-clad man, apparently their leader.
“We found him, sir,” the second said, plainly. “I already have a plan.” The last words he added with a smirk that did not go unnoticed.
“A plan? From a lousy acolyte such as you? Amazing!” the leader replied with a sneer. “So, tell us.”
“He’s still with that raven-haired bitch he met four years ago,” the bold acolyte started his speech.
“So?”
“We know he loves her, if his kind can truly love.”
His kind?
“Yes?” apart from the leader’s, several pairs of eyes now looked at the speaker and he seemed elated to be the center of attention.
“What if we take this woman away from him?” the acolyte beamed into the round of his accomplices.
“Um… did it occur to you that this cause of action might bring the bastard after us directly? He would go after the killers of his beloved!” the leader remarked coldly.
The other attendees sniggered.
“Not if he’s the one who kills her,” the acolyte replied, his eyes gleaming in triumph as the assembly fell silent.
Looking from one man to the other, Drangar tried to make sense of their words. “What’s the meaning of this? Why…” He fell silent when the acolyte continued.
The former mercenary tried to discern more of the assassins, their faces, notable features. Until now the only thing he had seen were vague images of men in rags.
The leader had a hawk-like face. His black hair stood in contrast with his blue eyes, and the mustache that crowned his upper lip gave him an older appearance. His voice slurred a little, but that seemed to be a way of gathering everyone’s attention, for in his outburst he had snarled and spoken without the slight touch in his speech.
She noticed Drangar’s intense stare. “Don’t bother,” she said. “They have failed and died.”
Frowning he looked up at her. “What?”
“You heard me. They are dead; they don’t matter.”
“They failed? Failed at what?”
“To kill you, boy. They weren’t meant to kill her, they were ordered to kill you, and only you. But watch and listen.”
“Ordered?” He frowned.
“Hush! Listen!”
Another of the group nodded. “We do know he loves this woman, so if he kills her, his resolve will shatter.”
The leader scowled. “What do you propose?”
“Easy. We prepare a potion. One that influences the mind, and then we let him see what we want him to see.”
With a suddenness that startled Drangar the two rushed through the hut’s ceiling and away from the building.
“Wait!” he yelled, confused at the turn of events. “Why do we leave now? Why now? They just started talking about the important part.”
“We need to see more and I don’t have time or strength to keep us in one place longer than necessary; the important parts were said,” she explained, and without further comment they flew across Dunthiochagh.
Trees and houses streaked past. They flew over a few public wells and the one park that hadn’t fallen victim to more houses. Drangar tried to follow their path, but at this speed he could hardly discern the features of a city he had lived in for only a couple of months. He tried to locate landmarks to know where they were, but couldn’t. When they finally halted above a mansion, he looked at his companion and, apart from seeing her face more clearly now, he also realized it was nighttime.
“Where are we?”
“Unimportant, come and see and listen,” she said roughly and they sank into the building, passing walls and servants, crossing through various rooms, both sparely and lushly decorated. Some noble or rich merchant owned this place, Drangar figured, judging from the pictures and carpets he saw. Elven work was paired with some Samaarian maps, which certainly did not come from this part of the world. When he saw the decorated and jeweled breast plate, adorned with tusks of various beasts, he knew the owner was very rich—this armor was of elven make, no human had created this. Not many people alive had ever seen such armor, and even fewer could afford it.
They entered a small room. Its walls were covered with wood, several furs were spread on the floor, and a small but warm-looking fireplace crackled in the corner. In the center of the room, loaded to its limit with delicacies, stood a small table. Around it were gathered four women dressed in long gowns with their hair loose. The loose hair was somewhat curious. He remembered that at the time he had lived in Dunthiochagh, braids had been the one thing that dominated women’s fashion, and the only woman who had refused to tame her hair with silk had been Hesmera. He frowned and then blanched when hearing her voice. In a mixture of giggle and laughter her beautiful voice rose above the others.
“And he really said, ‘May I court you, milady?’”
The other women howled with laughter.
Hesmera grinned, wiping tears from her eyes. “Can you imagine, in the middle of nowhere, on a battlefield, this man comes up, covered in blood, the fiercest fighter of the entire warband, a man as mad as they get, and asks if he may court me! I mean, I had wanted him in my bed before, because he looks real good,” she beamed saying that, stroking the amulet that hung from a chain around her neck. “But, he comes up to me, after he rescued me from several attackers who had broken through our wall, beheading one and gutting the others, one of the bodies still twitching on his sword, and asks me in the most knightly manner ‘May I court you?’”
One of the other women, a lithe blonde, looked at Hesmera, her cheeks still red. “He never had a woman before?”
She snorted. “Sure he had, but he had never fallen in love.” Gently she stroked the fine curves of the pendant.
“Had you?” asked another woman, older judging by the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes.
“Yes, I had men before, what better thing is there than to fuck after a boring day, or when you are wracked by the pain of losing a friend?” the raven-haired woman leered at the others, who gasped at her crude language.
“But… but, isn’t making love sacred? Shouldn’t you save yourself for your husband?” the blonde asked, a little subdued.
“Well, making love is sacred, yes, but fucking? Besides, it’s way more fun if you know what you are doing,” Hesmera said. “I mean, you don’t go full gallop on a horse before you learn how to ride, do you?”
The other two women bobbed their heads in agreement.
“How long has it been since he asked you?” the blon
de asked dreamily.
“Tomorrow it will be four years,” Hesmera replied. “How about you, Neena, are you in love with someone?” As an afterthought she added, “And don’t tell me it’s Drangar!”
For a while Neena said nothing, blushing silently.
“No, you don’t!” Hesmera snapped.
“He is handsome,” said the woman who had, until now, been silent. “And you’re damn lucky he’s yours, Hesmera. For the younger women he represents almost everything they ever dreamed of. He is a hero. For us with a few more winters, well,” she smiled, “let’s say I wouldn’t send him packing.” Hesmera snorted. “He’s mysterious.” The warrior-woman’s mirth vanished. “And Neena is perfectly right, he is handsome.”
“But there are other good-looking men in Dunthiochagh, too, Kara,” said the second older woman. “Neena just hasn’t seen them, right, child?”
“Mum!” Neena moaned.
“Is she trying to find a suitable husband for you?” Hesmera asked, laughing.
After the young woman had nodded her affirmative, Hesmera grinned at the mother. “Maybe she should take to the field, grab a sword, and fight her way through life for a while. Then, after she has grown up, she will find a suitable husband. If she survives that is. What do you think, Leonore? Isn’t that a good idea?”
Neena looked at Kara and both shared a knowing glance, and Drangar knew from the sound of Hesmera’s voice she was joking at the expense of the older woman, who almost fainted at the suggestion.
“She will stay here!” Leonore all but shouted.
The other three women burst out in laughter. “Of course I will, mother,” Neena said. “I would never do that to you.”
“Besides, she is too old for holding a sword; most people learn to fight at an early age. I picked up a sword when I was ten, I think. Drangar when he was four or so.” Seeing their astonished faces, Hesmera added hastily, “He didn’t learn to fight at that age, but he picked it up. He was strong even then.”
“So, what will you do for your anniversary tomorrow?” Leonore asked.
Now it was Hesmera’s turn to blush. “I think I will buy one of those fabled love potions and see how things unfold.”
“And that she means rather literally,” Kara said, causing all four of the women to burst out in laughter again.
Drangar smiled, despite himself. Hearing her voice again was blessing and curse. Although it dawned upon him what the ghost intended him to see, he could not quite discern the truth, yet.
Again, they rushed out of the building and crossed both city and night, and when they arrived over Old Bridge it was noon of the next day, their anniversary.
Drangar shuddered. This was the day she had died.
The bridge market was busy. To Drangar it felt almost like the one in Carlgh, only bigger. Next to the vendors’ booths stood bards singing tales of woe and love, of passion and warfare. Jugglers entertained squeaking children and fortune-tellers, pretending to use crystal balls made by long forgotten Phoenix Wizards, telling lovers and loners their future. People hailing from many countries offered wares from all over the world.
In the middle of that ruckus, Neena and Hesmera made their way through the pushing and shoving crowd. Both wore their hair loose; it appeared as if Neena tried to mimic the older woman’s attire and behavior. She wore a dress similar to the warrior’s, only that hers was blue while Hesmera wore green. Around her wrists were several bracelets, each finger bore a ring. Hesmera only wore the amulet, one bracelet and one ring, presents given by Drangar when he had asked her to marry him. Personally, he thought Neena was overdoing it, but saw the looks men gave her. Or was it Hesmera at whom they were looking? He wasn’t sure.
The women were enjoying themselves. Stopping at booths and even halting at one of the fortunetellers and waiting in line for a while to see what the future held for them. When Hesmera caught the pickpocket that tried to steal hers and Neena’s purses, the selfsame fortuneteller made haste to get out of the city, followed by a mob of angry townspeople who all found their moneybags missing.
Then the ghostly figure directed his attention toward a booth that sold trinkets and potions. He did not remember either the vendor or his staff, for even though he knew the booth, its owner had changed.
He hesitated. One of the vendors had observed Drangar’s younger self yesterday. No! He wanted to warn his lover, his love, his everything. From the direction the two women were taking, Drangar knew they were headed for the booth, intent on setting Hesmera’s plan into motion.
He rushed forward, wanted to stop her, only to be restrained by the strong grip of the spirit woman next to him. “You can't change the past, boy! You can only learn from it. Let it rest. Hesmera has been dead for more than two years!”
“But…” he struggled to find the right words. “But maybe I can help her; maybe I can undo what has been done.”
“I’m sorry, you can’t! The past is past and nothing can change it!” The last words held him back and steeled his mind against what would inevitably come to pass.
He watched from afar as Neena and Hesmera approached the fake vendor and, after some haggling and questioning, bought a dark vial. The merchant explained its use to Hesmera while Neena rummaged through the various trinkets, finally discovering something she liked. After debating over the price for a while longer, both women retreated from the booth, happy with their purchases.
Both made for their homes. Again, time and space rushed past and he suddenly hovered in the middle of his and Hesmera’s house, overlooking a candle-lit table set with various dishes, most of them certainly not cooked by his lover; she had never been much of a cook. Drangar suspected Neena, of whom he had no idea she even existed two years ago, had somehow had her hand in this feast. Porcelain plates and two glass goblets marked their places. Next to the plates were spoons and forks and knives. At first Hesmera had not grasped the concept of civilized eating, as she called it, something he still carried on from his monastic upbringing. Having lived amongst wanderers all her life, the woman was used to knife and spoon, but a fork had been alien to her, more so the use of both, knife and fork, together. Drangar remembered her first lessons in civilized eating, a failure if ever there was one. Actually, it had been Hesmera who had asked him to teach her, and now, having seen her with the three higher-standing women, he knew why.
“The past is the past!” the ghostly woman reminded him.
He acknowledged.
Then the door opened and in came the younger Drangar, carrying his wife to be, Hesmera. “Gods, I love you,” he said, as she snuggled against him, slender but muscular arms wrapped around his neck. He halted, his eyes on the set table.
“Surprise,” she whispered in his ear, nibbling his earlobe. “And I love you, too.”
“You didn’t,” Drangar stuttered. “You couldn’t… you… Gods!” He held her close and brushed his lips against hers. “All this just for our anniversary?”
She nodded. “And that isn't all, just wait and see,” she whispered seductively, kissing his neck.
Laughing, Drangar set her down and as soon as her feet touched the floor she twirled around him and embraced him from behind, her fingers searching for his belt-buckle, opening it. “I doubt you need this sword tonight, kind sir,” she teased.
The ghostly Drangar drew in a sharp breath, knowing full well what came next.
“How about some wine, my love?” Hesmera asked, hanging his sword belt on the hook near the door. His younger self stood, perplexed.
“Um, you know I don’t drink.”
“But this night is special,” she pouted, and he relented.
Giggling, green dress swirling around her ankles, Hesmera rushed to the small closet, taking the two goblets with her. She opened the closet’s door, removed a bottle, and uncorked it. Then, carefully paying attention not to spill a drop of the vial she had retrieved from the folds of her dress, she poured its contents into one glass, mixing it with the wine she added a moment later.
This glass she handed to Drangar, and then filled hers.
Turning around, her eyes sparkling, she raised her drink and smiled. “To eternal love.”
“To love eternal,” he replied solemnly and drank, mimicking her actions, draining the glass without setting it down. He saw good-natured mischief sparkling in her eyes, chuckled, and straightened a bit. “Nice music,” he muttered.
Hesmera grinned. “Shall we dine?”
“Yes, I’m starved.”
They sat down and as always, Drangar started the prayer he had learned as a child. “Lesganagh, Eanaigh, two as one you fought. To bring us light and health and food. To you we dedicate this meal and…” He fell silent, looking about in confusion.
The ghostly Drangar groaned. “Must we see this?”
“Yes, you have got to understand!” His companion’s voice was relentless.
“Drangar?” Hesmera asked, her eyes wide. “What is it?”
“Hesmera?” he whispered, his eyes wide, searching, unable to see. “Hesmera? Where are you?” Stumbling, he stood and gazed around, eyes darting from left to right. “Hesmera?”
“I’m here,” she said. “Right before you.”
His eyes were dull white, unseeing.
Again, he turned, staring straight at and through her. “Hesmera?” Instinctively he reached for his sword, his hand grasping empty air. “Hesmera? Where are you?” Then after a moment he asked, “Where am I?”
Fear clawed its way into her eyes as she reached out to hold him. Startled he withdrew. “Who are you?” he yelled. “Show yourself!”
“It is I, Hesmera!” she replied firmly.
He tore himself free. “Stay away from me, fiend!” Again, he searched for his sword. Both Hesmera and the ghostly Drangar were stunned by what happened next. The confused warrior held out his right hand. “Sword!” he growled and by itself the weapon leaped from its sheath, jumped straight into his hand, fingers wrapped around the hilt, tightly.